Post by Himni, son of Mosiah
I still remember the morning they departed—the morning my brother Ammon embraced me with his familiar fire, the morning Aaron placed his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes, as if to say, You are needed here just as much as we are needed there. I nodded, not trusting my voice, and watched them disappear into the eastern hills with Alma, Shiblon, Corianton, and Zeezrom. Their sandals kicked up the dust of purpose, of destiny. I remained behind in Zarahemla.
It is strange how service to the Lord sometimes feels like movement—traveling, preaching, baptizing in far-off rivers—but other times it feels like stillness, like watching over the sheepfold while the shepherds range the hills. And yet I have come to see that both callings are sacred.
When Father passed the records to Alma and we sons of Mosiah had declined the kingdom, it was with a shared understanding: our lives belonged to Christ. For over a decade, I served among the Lamanites, saw prison walls and angelic light, saw hatred turn into weeping, and witnessed the miracle of redemption. I had expected that kind of fire to be my lifelong calling. So when Alma felt impressed to take a small company to the Zoramites—those proud and wandering brethren of ours—I anticipated joining them. But the Spirit whispered otherwise.
My duty was to remain.
At first, I struggled. I asked: Why me, Lord? Why now? I longed to stand once more shoulder to shoulder with my brethren in the trenches of missionary labor. But as the days passed, I came to understand the subtle urgency of my task. The church in Zarahemla needed steady hands, not just strong voices.
There were families who wavered in faith. There were widows in need of bread and young priests in need of mentorship. The teachings of Nehor still echoed in some minds, and the contentions sown by Amlici had not fully healed. The church was growing—but so were the pressures of wealth, pride, and political tension. I found myself ministering in council meetings, in quiet visits to the sick, in fasting and prayer with the high priests. I listened to the rising generation who had not known King Benjamin’s voice, and I wept with those who remembered Abinadi’s words like fire sealed in memory.
I began to see: this, too, is missionary work. Holding the line, lifting the weary, reminding the saints who they are.
When word came of the Zoramite defiance—of the Rameumptom and the poisonous doctrine that exalted a chosen few—I felt the sting of sorrow. But when I later heard of the conversions among the poor, of the trials that came upon my brethren and their unwavering courage, I rejoiced. And in those moments, I saw the hand of the Lord more clearly: while they plowed in stony ground, I was tending the vineyard at home, that the fruit might not spoil.
Not all heroes ride into new lands. Some stand guard at the gates.
I am Himni, son of Mosiah. Once I went forth to reclaim enemies and found brothers instead. Now I remain to strengthen the saints and to guard the church my father loved. And I know this: wherever the Lord assigns us, whether eastward among the Zoramites or home among the covenant people, it is holy ground.
